


A Question of Identity

by whynotcallitvanda (AthenaMay24)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Introspection, SVE2018, Scarlet Vision Exchange 2018, Scarletvisionexchange2018, one of these days I'll find the right tag for that, written for the scarlet vision exchange 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaMay24/pseuds/whynotcallitvanda
Summary: While on the run after the events of Civil War, Wanda begins to feel like she’s losing herself. Luckily, she has a wonderful boyfriend who can try to help her feel better.





	A Question of Identity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [concretegrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concretegrrl/gifts).



> This was written for concretegrrl on Tumblr as a part of the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2018. 
> 
> Written for the prompt: “I would love a fic that focuses on Vision learning more about Wanda’s Sokovian/Romani heritage, either from Wanda or on his own. Bonus points for fluff!”
> 
> I loved the prompt, I thought it was so interesting and I really hope I did it justice. It was really fun to write, so thank you! I tried my best to do research, and based the food on Czech cuisine because in one of the movies Sokovia is shown to border the Czech Republic. I hope I get the fluff bonus points, and I hope you like it!

Vision tied off the end of Wanda’s braid and passed it over her shoulder to indicate that he was finished with it.

Wanda moved out of her spot between his legs and turned to face him on the bed, curling her feet under her. “Thanks, babe.” She pressed a kiss onto his lips, fingers worrying distractedly at the bleach-damaged ends of her hair.

“You are quite welcome.” Vision smiled at her, but Wanda wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead she was gazing pensively at one of the hotel room’s four large mirrors. She’d seemed preoccupied ever since she asked him to braid her hair, and at first, he hadn’t been sure, but now he thought he might know what was bothering her.

“Is everything alright, Wanda?” Vision asked, cocking his head to the side and studying her further.

“Yeah, why?” Wanda didn’t turn her head, but she did make eye contact with him in the mirror.

“You continue to seem . . . dissatisfied with your hair,” Vision said carefully.

Wanda snorted, shoving the unnaturally orange braid over her shoulder where she couldn’t play with it. “Nat said I’ll get used to the color.”

“It’s been six months.”

Wanda finally faced him, wearing that small, slightly-annoyed smile that she got whenever he pointed out any of her logical fallacies. “But I wasn’t a redhead for _all_ of that time.”

That was true enough. She cycled between various shades of blonde and red—never anything too dark, nothing too close to her natural brown. He thought they were all beautiful, of course, but Wanda only got more and more frustrated with each new look.

“I miss my hair.” Wanda sighed. She’d gone back to staring at the mirror. “Maybe it’s vain, I don’t know, but I always loved my hair.” She chuckled a little. “When I was a girl, I wanted it to be so long. As long as I could grow it. Long, and dark, and curly, like my mother’s. Hers was beautiful—curlier than mine, and I’m probably remembering it longer than it actually was, but I thought she had more hair than I’d ever seen in my life.”

Vision felt his chest constrict at the thought of just how much she was sharing with him. She’d shared so much over the course of their relationship, but he always selfishly wanted to know more. “And your father? Was his similar?”

Wanda shook her head, blinking, and part of Vision felt guilty for her tears, but another part of him recognized that this was just the way she remembered, with small details and glistening eyes.

“No,” she answered finally. “Well, sort of. His was dark—we all had dark hair—me, my parents, Pietro when he didn’t dye it, even my grandparents from the pictures I remember. But my father’s wasn’t curly like—” her voice broke, signaling to Vision that this was enough, the conversation had gone too far.

He reached out, drew her into his arms, and held her. She cried quietly into his chest. The tears for her parents were usually silent, like these, tamed by years of hiding them from her ever-present twin. The ones for Pietro were wild and forceful and found her in the middle of the night, so strong that she’d wake the next morning more physically exhausted than the night before.

Vision had seen many kinds of Wanda’s tears, and he hated— _hated_ , something he’d once thought himself incapable of—he hated them more than almost anything.

Wanda sniffed and sat up, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. Vision recognized this as well. It was her ‘get ahold of yourself’ face. He kissed her cheek.

She stood, facing the mirror once more, hands crossed over her chest. “I understand why dyeing it is necessary. I can’t look like me because I can’t _be_ me, especially since we’re already taking a risk meeting like we do.” Wanda took a deep breath, waving one hand in a sweeping gesture.  “I just miss feeling like myself.”

Vision reached forward and gently grabbed the arm that wasn’t pressed against her stomach. He took her hand, still unused to the feeling of her bare, ringless fingers. “Is there anything I can do to help in that regard?”

Wanda smiled, leaning forward to kiss him. “You’re doing it, Vizh. Being with you is about the only thing that keeps me from completely losing myself.”

Still, as Vision embarked on the long journey back to the United States the next day, he wished there was something more he could do for her.

~o0o~

Vision sat stock still, the way that unnerved most people with its inhumanness. He could’ve gone through the motions of breathing, shifting in his seat, blinking, and glancing around, but he was alone, here in Wanda’s old room, so there wasn’t anyone else to consider.

He usually tried to stay away from Wanda’s bedroom, both because he wished to ensure his connection to her remained as inconspicuous as possible, and because something about it felt oddly invasive. He could still hear the echoes of “Knock, Vizh!” and though he knew he no longer had to worry about walking in on her naked, being alone somewhere so intrinsically tied to Wanda without her knowledge or consent didn’t appeal to his sense of propriety.

Today, however, that essence of _Wanda_ was exactly what he was trying to capture. He’d given a lot of thought to her feelings of losing herself and had come to the conclusion that he had to do something about it.

It was honestly no wonder Wanda was feeling frustrated. On the run like she was, she couldn’t look like herself, she couldn’t sound like herself, she couldn’t dress like herself, she couldn’t _be_ herself. One’s identity is tied to one’s appearance, as Vision himself learned when he set about developing his human disguise.

But this wasn’t about him. It was about Wanda.

The first step, naturally, was to figure out exactly what made Wanda feel like herself. After that, he could attempt to integrate those elements into her fugitive life in a way that wouldn’t put her in danger.

Vision closed his eyes and thought about Wanda. He thought about her smile, her laugh, the many different looks in her eyes. He visualized her fingers dancing through the air, the light of her own scarlet power glinting off her rings. The way she hummed when she was preoccupied, and the slight furrowing of her brow whenever Mr. Stark said something obnoxious. 

The way she talked of her home, of the years before the bomb, of her mother teaching her to cook and her father teaching her to dance, of Pietro impish pranks and her grandmother's pet cat. 

The flash of scarlet in her eyes when she mentions the Sokovian civil war, or the communists, or the Nazis. How civil unrest stole her grandfather from her long before it took her parents. Living on the streets, stealing to survive, barely feeling any shame for it, and the shame she feels now, years later. The sad fondness that overtakes her whenever Pietro's overprotectiveness would come up, and the fierce anger at any implication that Sokovia wasn't worth the effort, that rebuilding it was a waste, that maybe this would teach that backward nation a lesson. 

Wanda loved her country, despite everything, and ultimately, she'd given up everything for it. The struggle to make Sokovia a better place had taken her parents, her home, then her freedom, her  _humanity_ , and if that wasn't enough, it took her brother, too. 

And she still loved her country, and she still saw it as part of her identity, inseparable from herself. 

Vision opened his eyes. 

He knew what he needed to do.

~o0o~

Vision walked the streets of Novi Grad, clad in his human disguise, doing his best to blend in. He hadn’t seen Novi Grad before Ultron, so he had no firsthand knowledge of the city as Wanda had known it, however before this trip he did as much researching as he could. He wanted to be able to recognize the differences as Wanda would see them, if she was ever able to come back here.

A part of him felt bad for coming without her. She occasionally spoke about bringing him, to show him a place from her childhood, only to remember that it had probably been destroyed along with everything else. Unfortunately, however, if he wanted to get the information he needed, a trip to Novi Grad was the only way, short of asking Wanda herself, which would of course ruin the surprise.

Vision headed away from the city center. According to his research, the best place to glimpse true Sokovian culture was on the outskirts of the city where the damage had been lighter. After the Ultron crisis, nations from all over the world had banded together to rebuild Sokovia, and so far, things were looking up for its citizens. They even had a budding tourist economy based around the battle with Ultron.

That was all well and good, but Vision wasn’t sure Wanda would appreciate a Tony Stark bobblehead that was likely made in China.

After only twenty minutes of walking, he found himself in a much more residential area. There was a bakery to his right, flanked by a brewery on one side and a pharmacy on the other. People were out and about—not as many as he’d seen in other part of the city, but enough to imply that this was a well-traveled area.

He supposed there was nothing else for it except to attempt to strike up a conversation with someone. That was why he was here, after all, but he was suddenly rather nervous.

He scanned the people he saw, deciding eventually to approach one of the men, aware that a strange, foreign man walking up to a woman on the street usually indicated sinister motives. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten someone.

“Excuse me, sir?” he said in accented Sokovian. He was capable of speaking the language perfectly, but for the part he was playing, he needed to seem like an outsider.

The man looked up, distrust evident in his eyes. It appeared that there really weren’t many visitors in this part of town. “Yes?”

 “I was wondering about Sokovian culture,” Vision said as smoothly as he could in his accented voice. “Do you know where I could get that information?”

The man’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that kind of query. “That’s a broad topic.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Vision conceded.

“Are you a professor or something?” the man asked, still carefully appraising him.

“No, nothing like that.” Vision shook his head, belatedly realizing that would have been an excellent cover story. “See, my girlfriend is from Novi Grad, she had to move after the incident, and—” he explained the predicament, and exactly what he was trying to accomplish.

“Oh.” The man paused. “Huh. Well, I’d check out the bakery. Katinka, the girl who works there, she can tell you a lot, and if _she_ can’t, then her grandmother will be able to.” He looked Vision up and down a final time. “Just don’t interfere with business, and I’m sure they will help you.”

Vision looked in the direction the man indicated. “Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”

“You too.” The man walked off, shaking his head.

Vision entered the bakery hesitantly. He didn’t want to detract from business, but generally avoided buying or eating food, as a rule. The bakery was currently empty, however, so he didn’t feel quite as bad about taking up the woman’s time.

She was behind the counter, busy wrapping up various pastries and breads. “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing up.

Vision briefly explained his goals once again. The woman put down her parcels of food.

“Wow. That’s so sweet.” She smiled. “I’d be happy to help! My name is Katinka.”

“Victor,” Vision said smoothly, using the alias he’d adopted for visiting Wanda.

“Nice to meet you, Victor.” Katinka leaned in conspiringly. “I’m really not supposed to do this—my grandmother would kill me if she found out—but I can give you our family recipes, if you want.”

Vision nodded so enthusiastically he began to feel dizzy. “That would be wonderful!”

“Okay, well, the first thing you do is—” Katinka stopped. “Oh, do you need to write this down?”

“I will remember,” Vision said confidently.

Katinka looked skeptical, but didn’t argue with him. “All right. The first thing you do is . . .”

~o0o~

Vision did remember Katinka’s instructions. He remembered them in the same vivid detail that he remembered everything else that had ever happened to him. That wouldn’t be of any help to him, however, if the dough continued to be uncooperative.

He should’ve practiced.

After leaving Katinka’s bakery full of confidence and gratitude, he’d managed to track down the other people she’d suggested, her grandmother and uncle. They were all very helpful, and Vision had thought that everything was going wonderfully. The cabbage soup was simmering, he’d successfully fried the topinky bread (though he was concerned about the large amount of garlic Katinka had told him to use), and the schnitzel was far easier than he’d expected after Katinka’s grandmother’s demonstration.

The trouble came, however, when he tried to make the buchty for dessert. The sweet dumpling, as Katinka had explained, was usually filled with a fruit confit, but he hadn’t even gotten started on that yet, because the dough was just not working!

The consistency was all wrong. Perhaps it needed some more flour? Vision turned, grabbing the bag of flour with one hand, but his other hand was covered in sticky bits of dough. He tried to gently shake it off, and when that didn’t work, scraped his fingers on the edge of the bowl. It only occurred to him later that if he’d simply phased his hand and let the dough fall off, he could’ve avoided what happened next.

In his frustration with the dough, he involuntarily squeezed the open bag of flour in his other hand, causing a puff of the white powder to envelop his face. This in turn, surprised him so much that the bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, spilling flour all over the floor. Vision stood frozen in the mess, filled with the overwhelming urge to laugh at his misfortune. Before he could decide on the appropriate response, however, he heard the sounds of the front door opening.

Wanda was home.

~o0o~

"Vizh?" Wanda opened the door to her small Edinburgh apartment, trying to push down her budding excitement. "Is that you?" She knew it was him, she could sense his mind from blocks away, but he wasn't supposed to be here for another week. 

"Wanda?" Vision's voice came from around the corner, and the slight panic in his mind made her pause in the door. "You're back earlier than—” He appeared in front of her, phasing through part of the wall. He took a deep breath like he was steading himself and smiled at her. "Hello.”

"Hi." Wanda held back a giggle and threw her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?" she murmured into the fabric of his sweater. She pulled back, her brain finally registering the rest of his attire. "And why are you wearing an apron? Are you cooking?"

"I—well," Vision rubbed the back of his neck. "I was trying to—"

"To cook for me?" Wanda interrupted excitedly, beaming. 

Vision nodded, looking down. "Certain things didn't work the way I anticipated, plus you arrived early, so—"

"Can I help?" Wanda interrupted again. "Or not, if you would rather this be one of those things you do for me by yourself."

"Your aid would be much appreciated."

Wanda grinned, throwing her arms around him again. "You're the best, you know that?"

"You’ve yet to see the kitchen," Vision deflected.

"What did you do to the kitchen?" Wanda pushed past him into the other room, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her.

She froze in the door, staring, her mouth falling open.

There was flour all over the place, the floor, the cabinets, the counter, plus a glob of some kind of dough on the wall that Vision had phased through. She figured that the mess was one of the things that Vision hadn't anticipated, but she barely noticed any of it. She was too caught up in what assaulted the rest of her senses.

Vision shifted uncomfortably, misinterpreting her silence. He stepped forward to pick up the bag of flour. "I apologize for the mess. I was—"

"What’s that smell, Vizh?" Wanda's shoulders were tense, and she knew Vision could see it, and she knew she should reassure him that she wasn't upset, but the scent of those spices and the sight of those ingredients were bringing tears to her eyes and the last thing she wanted was for him to think he made her  _cry_  when he was such a sweetheart for attempting to do this in the first place.

Vision clearly didn't know what to do, eyes flicking from Wanda to the kitchen and back again. “Uh, well, I made topinky, cabbage soup, and schnitzel. I was attempting buchty, but as you can see, that didn’t go according to plan.”

Wanda whirled around to face him, throwing herself in his arms for the third time. "I love you," she breathed, unable to come up with any other coherent thought. “I love you _so_ much.”

Vision stiffened, arms still around Wanda, but there was no hesitation in his words. "I love you, too, Wanda."

Wanda kissed him, staying in his arms for as long as she could before she had to pull away. "Why—I mean, what made you decide to—" she waved her hand helplessly at the counter. 

Vision looked uncomfortable again. "You seemed like you could use a taste of home."

Wanda smiled, tears pricking her eyes again. "Thank you, Vizh."

“Of course.”

Wanda examined Vision’s first batch of dough. “I hate to say it, babe, but this seems unsalvageable.”

Vision nodded. “I figured as much.” He crouched down and began sweeping the spilled flour into piles with his hands.

“You know that I can get all of that?” Wanda snapped her fingers, letting out a spark of red. “If you’d like.”

“Be my guest.” Vision stood, giving her a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

She smiled, setting down the bowl. This would be harder than most things she manipulated, but if she could extract a cloud of gas from a building, she could clean up a little flour.

A sweep of her hands and few flicks of her fingers, and delicate wisps of red were plucking at the grains of flour, gathering them together into a dust-cloud in the middle of the room. When she was sure she had it all, she sent it flying into the trash can, closing the lid with a satisfying clang.

Wanda turned to Vision, grinning. “Nothing to it.”

“It would appear not.” Vision smiled back at her, and then hesitated like there was something else he wanted to say.

“Yes?” Wanda asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I was going to wait to give these to you,” Vision reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small bag. Wanda recognized it instantly, and her eyes widened. “I thought that there wouldn’t be any harm in rescuing a few of your belongings from the compound. These seemed small enough to go unnoticed.”

Wanda stumbled forward and took the bag from him, fingers trembling as she undid the drawstring and let the contents tumble into her hand. It was her rings, all of them, the ones she’d been wearing when she’d been arrested and the ones she’d left in her room. She put them on immediately, and then laughed, pulling them off again.

“Is everything all right?” Vision asked nervously.

“Yes, don’t worry.” Wanda pressed a kiss onto his lips. “I just can’t cook with all the rings on.”

“Oh, right.” Vision looked embarrassed, and Wanda giggled. He gestured to the ingredients on the counter. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

~o0o~

Cooking was much more enjoyable when Wanda was there to help. It frustrated Vision no end that he couldn't seem to master it, but Wanda's assurances that even many humans are terrible cooks did somewhat mollify him. The food turned out delicious, according to Wanda. He declined to have any so that Wanda would have plenty of leftovers for the rest of the week, but she did make him try a taste of each dish, and he had to admit that the palate was unlike anything he’d tried before.

Vision dried the last of the dishes as Wanda arranged the leftovers in the fridge, humming to herself. Vision figured this was as good a time as any to bring up the next item on his agenda. 

"Wanda?"

"Hmm?" Her head was still in the tiny fridge, shoving things around.

"What song is that? You hum it often."

"Oh." Wanda straightened, letting the fridge door swing shut. "Uh, just something my dad used to listen to. An old Sokovian folk song. I don't really remember the words."

"Would you like to hear it?" Vision asked, producing a small CD player from where he’d stashed it in the cabinet.

"What?" Wanda cocked her head to the side. "There's no way that you—"

Vision pressed play. 

The familiar melody filled the air. Vision was impressed at how well Wanda had been reproducing it after all these years. 

She was silent while the song played, but she didn't try to stop the tears from falling this time. 

Vision paused the CD before the next track could play, the anxious knot in his stomach now a familiar sensation. 

"How did you do that?" Wanda breathed, "Where did you—"

"There was an old street performer in Novi Grad. He claimed to play nearly forgotten music, so I asked him about the song you always sing. It took some time, but he finally figured out which one I meant. He made a CD with that song, and others he thought you might know, and—" Vision reached into the cabinet again, fumbling slightly. Wanda twirled her fingers, and took the CD player from him with a few curls of scarlet, freeing his hands. "And he wrote down the sheet music, so you can learn to play them, if you want. I would have gotten you an instrument—I know you used to play guitar—but I wasn't sure what would be the most appropriate—"

"Vizh." Wanda said quietly, still balancing the CD player with her powers. "I'm so confused. Why did—How—When did you go to Novi Grad?”

The frustration in her voice and the tears still lingering on her face made Vision rapidly rethink his plan. Unfortunately, it was far too late to turn back now.

"Well, I guess—" He stumbled over the words. "Can we go sit down, and I'll explain?"

Wanda nodded, pulling the CD player towards her and cradling it to her chest as she followed him to the couch. 

Vision waited until she was sitting comfortably with her feet curled under her, facing him. She was still clutching the CD player, but Vision took that as a good sign. He templed his fingers in his lap, staring down at them.

"I guess the simplest explanation is that I wanted you to know that you didn't have to completely give up your identity—whether that's your culture, or your personality, or anything else about you—just because you're a fugitive. You can still interact with all of these aspects that make you feel like yourself," Vision explained quietly. “So, I took a trip to Novi Grad to see if I could find something to help you feel better. I met a very nice woman who taught me to bake. Her grandmother taught me to cook, and her uncle was the street performer I mentioned.”

Wanda let out a breath. "Vizh, that's—I—" She broke off helplessly, holding out a hand towards his head. "Can I—?”

"Of course."  Vision leaned closer, always welcoming a stronger connection with her, especially when she was articulating complicated emotions. 

A few drops of red crossed the distance between her fingertips and his forehead, and then he was hit with a wave of warmth, and love, and gratitude, and just a hint of unworthiness, all jumbled together with confusion that anyone would go to all this trouble for her. 

"It's not silly," Vision said immediately, picking up on the errant thought that she had been making a fuss over nothing. "There's nothing silly or inconsequential about your feelings, Wanda." He could tell she didn't quite believe him, or thought he didn't quite understand what she meant, so he persisted. "You think that your feelings of losing your identity were unfounded and ridiculous, and that's simply not the case."

Wanda shrugged, looking away. "I guess, but they certainly weren't worth all this."

"Of course they were," Vision insisted, grabbing her hands and bringing them to his lips. "Darling, you're the one who's always telling me that my feelings are valid, no matter what they are, and I want to show you that yours are as well."

Wanda was crying again. She pulled one of her hands back to swipe at her cheeks, and Vision reached out to cradle her face between his hands, wiping the tears away for her. "I apologize if this was too much. I don't think I've quite got the hang of what is an appropriate gesture. I just want you to know that—as you always tell me—whatever you're feeling is important to me. I want to do what I can to make you happy. Always."

Wanda bit her lip, nodding, and then pulled him close for a kiss. She didn't have the words to thank him, but she made sure that, through both her thoughts and her kisses, Vision knew exactly what he meant to her. 


End file.
